Supersonic
by Krimsons
Summary: What is there left to do for a boy when he has already fulfilled his destiny? Harry has the chance to pursue a new purpose, to prove himself, to do something extraordinary. Follow him around the globe as he races to become the fastest flyer in the world.


**Chapter 1**

"GO!"

As soon as the magically amplified voice shouted, Harry Potter kicked up off the snowy ground, bursting forward on his broom.

He could feel over a hundred others do the same all around him.

The thunderous cheers and shouts of the tens of thousands of spectators were mostly drowned out by the howling winds of the blizzard. Harry paid neither any attention. His mind shut out all noises as he focused on one goal and one goal only: to get to the finish line, alive.

It took less than five seconds for the crowd, along with the entire small Swedish village of Kopparberg, to fade out of sight behind Harry. Not that he was looking. And not that he could've seen anything through the mid-January snowstorm anyways.

Harry's thin body was pressed completely flat on his broom, his chin resting on the handle right below where his two gloved hands gripped it from underneath. Globs of snow pelted the boy's body all over his skintight uniform, but he paid no heed to the freezing cold. All of his attention was fixated on looking ahead and trying to see where he was going.

Unfortunately visibility was nearly non-existent. Harry couldn't see more than maybe five meters in front of him. Thankfully the enchanted facemask of his helmet repelled snow and fog. The helmet itself was pure white, like the rest of his uniform, and looked like a Muggle full-face motorcycle helmet, except with an extended, sharp angular visor in front. The visor did not obstruct the line of sight, but Harry was told the shape made him more aerodynamic.

Harry spared a quick glance to the front tip of his broom, where three numbers instantly appeared on the wooden shaft and showed his speed to be nearing 200 kilometers per hour. Right above the numbers was a small moving arrow. It was a compass that assured him that he was still indeed going in the right direction.

The maelstrom of sleet and snow robbed him of all sense of time. He couldn't tell if he had been flying for ten minutes or an hour. He couldn't see anything but the furiously falling flurries and couldn't hear anything but the roar of the wind that was only exacerbated by the breakneck speed at which he was cutting through the air. It took every last drop of Harry's willpower to suppress the panic he could feel swelling up in him from the sensory deprivation and keep his mind focused on his surroundings.

In this sport, letting your attention wander for even a second could mean serious injury, or worse.

Suddenly, the monotonous sound of the wind was broken by a slight whooshing noise. Harry could barely see the level form of another racer appear in the corner of his left eye. The figure was about four meters in front of him and a bit to his left. Harry was slowly gaining on him.

As he got closer, the other racer's uniform caught his attention. Every racer he saw at the Starting Line was wearing all white or nearly all white uniforms, except for the splatter of crests and logos that decorated them, in order to blend in with the snowy background. However, this guy had decided to don what appeared to be a uniform designed in the pattern of an American flag.

The racer did not give any indication that he had noticed Harry approaching. But as Harry nearly pulled even with him, the American suddenly swerved to his right, intentionally going onto a collision path with Harry.

Harry's lightning fast reflexes allowed him to shift his body weight and swerve right as well, avoiding a crash. Unfortunately, his surprise caused him to tilt his body to the right a bit more than he needed to, causing a tiny reduction in his speed. The small difference was enough for two other competitors that came out of nowhere to zoom past him.

Harry cursed in his head. _'Guess I wasn't as alert as I thought I was,'_ he thought.

Brushing aside the mistake, Harry readjusted his body back to being completely flat and rocketed forward.

It took about half a minute for Harry to catch up with the two figures who passed him. They were flying one in front of the other. It was an impressive sight, watching the two swerving left and right completely in sync. As he got closer, Harry noticed a blob in front of the two, most likely the American that tried to crash into him. The wizard was mirroring the actions of the two racers behind him, refusing to let them pass.

Harry very quickly closed the gap between him and the three others. When he was about half a meter behind the rearmost racer, he slightly lowered his altitude and flipped upside down on his broom in one smooth motion.

It's a move that Harry had practiced so many times that it was executed through muscle memory alone. It requires extremely fine control of his muscles, having to flex and shift different parts of his body in a successive chain of movements to ensure that he only flipped instead of going into a full roll.

He sped forward inverted and underneath the three jostling flyers, and was past them in an instant. As soon as he was in front, he flipped back up, not losing a bit of speed.

The four racers remained in close proximity for a while, swerving in every which direction into each other's paths. It was essentially a game of chicken on brooms, seeing who would back off first due to the fear of collision.

Harry couldn't tell how long they had been scrambling for, but soon the storm began to clear up a little bit. The falling snow became less thick, and a bit of sunshine finally managed to penetrate the dark clouds above.

Thankful for the increased visibility, Harry scanned his eyes ahead. He could count about a dozen or so racers ahead of himself. They each looked like arrows streaking through the air. This meant he was either pretty far up in front, or lagging way behind.

The dark-haired boy didn't have time to ponder his position as the three others were still hot on his tail.

With the snow letting up, racers all around began descending into the trees. The majority of the 700 kilometer race path was heavily forested. No one dared brave the maze of trunks and branches in the middle of a blizzard, but now everyone can actually see properly.

The nature of magical brooms is such that there is always a tradeoff between altitude and speed. The ratio of the tradeoff varies by broom of course, but in every case, flying lower means being able to fly faster.

The trees also act as a shield from the wind, allowing for even greater speeds.

It's because of those two factors that Harry found himself flying among the trees, weaving between the vegetation. His broom was only about two meters above the snow-covered ground.

His concentration was momentarily broken as he heard a bone-chilling scream followed by a crash somewhere in the distance behind him. Harry inwardly shuddered. Frostbitten fingers are not uncommon on this course, and they can easily cause racers to lose control of their broom.

Before he could dwell on it further, he found himself flanked by two others, one on each side. The tall trunk of a large tree was rapidly approaching from the front.

Harry cursed as he realized their plan. His coach had warned him about the cutthroat competition, but he didn't think anyone would take it this far!

With no other choice, Harry had to push his torso off his broom in order to slow down. Racers zoomed by him.

Seeing red in frustration, he launched forward again.

He veered under a low hanging branch, then shot up again, narrowly missing a racer. He shifted his body left to dodge a tree trunk, then instantly shifted right to barely avoid another.

He glanced down at his broom, which told him that he was rapidly approaching 260 kph.

Harry continued to weave his way through the forest. He was pulling close to two side by side wizards that were flying in front of him when he saw one of the wizards smash his shoulder into the other. The victim was knocked off his course, but wasted no time before coming back and slamming against the side of his attacker.

'_Idiots,'_ he thought. Contact always reduces your speed.

To avoid the two fighting racers, Harry shot upwards a couple of meters to fly over them. As he was ascending, he swerved to avoid a large branch, but wasn't quick enough to completely miss it. He felt the fabric of his uniform tear on his left arm as a sharp offshoot of the branch cut him.

The pain didn't even register. He was too pumped full of adrenaline.

After what felt like an eternity dodging the snowy trees, the forest finally came to an end. Harry shot out of the tree line and now was flying in a valley, with two tall mountains flanking its two sides.

Harry gulped. This is where the real challenge begins.

'_Okay, you've done it once, you can do it again,'_ he said to himself in encouragement. He began to ascend, following the racers in front of him. Altitude is needed for this part of the racecourse.

Quickly looking around again at the competition, Harry was slightly disheartened to see that the number of racers ahead of him had increased. Whoever was in first place looked to be over a kilometer ahead of him. On the bright side, he was now sure that he was near the front of the pack, seeing as how there were no signs of battle yet.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a deafening roar resonated throughout the valley.

'_Way to jinx it, Harry.'_

An enormous form darted into the sky from the mountains on their left. It was headed towards the couple of racers in the lead, who were still quite a ways away from Harry. But he didn't need to be close to know what the figure was.

The race route runs through a Swedish Short-Snout dragon reservation.

It was for this reason alone that nearly all racers wore white, in order to try and blend in with the snowy background and hopefully not be seen by the dragons. Of course, it does nothing to hide their smell.

The initial dragon's roar acted like a call to arms, as numerous roars soon followed. Five more dragons had risen from their caves and made for the racers.

A stream of brilliant blue flame escaped from the mouth of the first Short-Snout, scattering all wizards within its vicinity. It was rearing its head this way and that, causing the jet of fire to dance. It reminded Harry of the Whomping Willow's branches. Racers were swerving wildly in the air to avoid the chaotic scorching stream.

It was not long before the first victim was hit. Harry saw someone fly a bit too close to the sapphire blaze, and the end of their broom caught on fire as a result. The rider was sent plummeting to the ground, leaving a trail of thick grey smoke behind him. Harry could only hope whoever it was managed to Apparate out of there in time.

The sky all around the valley was now filled with jets of bright blue fire. Harry didn't have time to worry about the safety of others though, as he quickly climbed to just barely avoid being burned to a crisp himself. He swallowed as he looked over and realized that one of the dragons seemed to have locked on to him.

The Short-Snout's body was huge, probably a bit bigger than the one Cedric faced in the Triwizard Tournament. Its scales were a shimmering silvery blue that dazzled even in the clouded sunlight. A large horn adorning the front of its head and two rows of jagged sharp teeth added to its menacing look.

Harry began to sweat as the dragon raced after him. It was partly from being nervous as hell and partly from the fireballs sent his way. The boiling hot air was in sharp contrast to the blizzard from before.

Not daring to spare any glances back, Harry flew in a large zigzagging pattern and relied on sound to dodge the flames.

Panic started to well in his chest. He was hoping to simply out speed the dragon. In such an open air space, he should be able to hit his broom's maximum velocity. However, his broom actually seemed to slow down! No matter how much of his magic he pushed into it, the broom would not fly much faster than before.

Harry was broken from his thoughts as another stream of fire flew at him. He quickly pulled up and ascended above the blaze. This sent him straight into the path of another Short-Snout coming at him diagonally from his front right that he hadn't seen. The dragon opened its jaws as it closed in on Harry, a second away from devouring the human.

On instinct, Harry went into a very tight canopy roll: he pulled up and inverted as if going into a barrel roll, but controlled his body to stay overturned and flew in a diagonal arc right over the second dragon, finishing the roll after successfully passing behind the beast.

There was no time to pat himself on the back, as the first dragon had taken advantage of his mostly lateral maneuver to erase the distance between them. It roared, and it was so close behind him that Harry could swear he felt the sound waves physically pushing against his body.

He braced himself for the breath of fire that he knew would follow. He sharply pulled up on the handle, climbing nearly vertically in a tight spiral. He could feel the flames racing up to meet him from below. Abruptly pulling out of his spiral and banking left, Harry felt the burning stream shoot up straight though where he was just a second before. It was as if a volcano had erupted blue magma into the sky.

As he leveled off, Harry prayed to whatever God was out there for the Short-Snout to leave him alone. When he didn't feel nor hear and sign of the dragon pursing him, he chanced a look back. His wish seemed to be granted as the beast was now preoccupied chasing after two other racers flying below.

Letting out a small sigh of relief, Harry decided it was way past time to get the hell out of there. He stretched his body as tight as he could across his broom without falling off, throwing all his energy into speeding forward.

Now he could definitely tell something was wrong. His broom felt strange in his hands, almost as if the handle was smaller.

'_Nothing I can do about it now,'_ he said to himself pushing the thought out of his mind.

Harry continued to evade the rogue jet of flames here and there as he launched forward, but thankfully no more dragons decided to pursue a personal vendetta against him.

Soon the roars faded into the background, as the valley also grew wider.

He made it out of the dragon reservation.

Harry decided to celebrate later, not wanting to make it this far only to lose focus on the home stretch.

A grim sense of joy swept over him as he scanned the area with his eyes for other racers.

The dragons had drastically reduced his competition.

* * *

Neville Longbottom was nervous.

He was standing behind the railings near the Finish Line. The racers' teams were allowed to stand nearby, while the thousands and thousands of spectators were seated in high-rise bleachers that were perpendicular to the Finish Line on both sides. The gigantic structure looked out of place next to the small nearby village of Arjeplog.

The noise in the make shift stadium was very low for such large numbers. Quiet, nervous chatter permeated the crowd. Everyone was anxiously waiting for signs of the first racer to appear.

It had been 3 hours since everyone had Apparated here from the Starting Line, and the racers were due very soon. The air was so thick with anticipation that Neville could almost feel it, which just made him more nervous.

"Will you cut that out," a harsh voice hissed out from his right.

"Sorry," Neville grunted as he halted his fingers that were rapidly drumming on the metal railing. "I'm just worried about Harry."

This was the first time that Harry had participated in the Swedish Annual Broom Race. He's been in and done quite well in numerous smaller competitions, but these are the big leagues. The annual Swedish race is notoriously difficult and dangerous, and serves as the qualifier race for the World Championship Series. Out of over one hundred participants every year, a placement in the top 15 is needed to qualify.

"We all are."

Neville turned to the girl on his right. Daphne Greengrass was staring ahead at the horizon, an annoyed expression on her features. She had long, straight platinum blonde hair that smoothly cascaded down and framed her soft face quite well.

"You don't sound like it," he said.

Daphne spun her head to glare at him, a deep frown on her face.

"Only joking," he placated sheepishly. Indeed, he could see the worry in her light green eyes.

"Guys."

Neville and Daphne both moved their heads to look at the man who spoke standing on Neville's left.

"Knock it off. This is serious." Anthony Goldstein was medium height with short blond hair. He had a pronounced nose with light freckles across it. "If Harry gets roasted by a dragon, we're all out of a job."

"How can you be thinking of your job at a time like this?" Neville demanded angrily.

"It's an expression, dumbass," said Anthony.

Before Neville could reply, excited murmuring washed over the crowd. The three ex-Hogwarts students all turned back to look at the horizon, their previous jabs forgotten.

There, in the distance, was a glimmering speck. As the seconds passed, the speck grew and turned out to actually be a group of smaller specks. Spectators started shouting and cheering.

Anthony held his breath. He was holding on to the railing so tightly his knuckles were turning white. He was startled to feel someone hit him on his right arm and quickly turned in surprise. Neville was looking at him with raised eyebrows, holding up his pair of Omnioculars as if to show him. Mouthing an 'O', Anthony muttered a quick thanks for the reminder and retrieved his own pair and brought them to his face.

With the racers moving at such high speeds, it is all but necessary to watch the conclusion with Omnioculars in order to slow down the action. Otherwise it would all just be a blur. Thus broom racing is unique in all sports, both Muggle and magical, in having a Two Minute Rule: the official results are not displayed until two minutes after the winner crosses the Finish Line. This gives spectators time to watch the ending at a comprehendible pace through their Omnioculars. Any racer will tell you that it's the most gruesome 120 seconds ever.

* * *

Harry let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding as he burst across the Finish Line. He slowed his broom to a stop, but didn't fully stop until quite a distance past the line. He was panting in exhaustion as he sat up on his broom. Sweat rolled down his face as he removed his helmet.

And now the waiting begins.

It was eerie, that the crowd was so quite even though the race was ending. It was something that he still wasn't quite used to.

Harry slowly flew back towards the Finish Line on his broom, along with the other racers that had already finished. It felt great to sit up and stretch, after lying flat on his belly for three hours.

"Nice job, little man!"

Harry turned to see who was talking to him. Slowly flying on pace with him on his left was the man in the American flag uniform. His helmet was off, so Harry got a look at his face for the first time. The man was probably in his early thirties. He had brown hair that went down to his shoulders and a rugged looking face.

"Uh, thanks…" Harry said, not sure if the other wizard was trying to compliment him or insult him.

"Vince Grayson," the American said, extending his hand for a shake.

"Harry Potter." Harry wearily shook the man's hand. A look of recognition flashed across the man's face, but it quickly disappeared.

"You got some guts there, doing a Z Flip in that blizzard. I'm keeping my eyes on you!" he declared humorously.

"Yeah, uh good luck!" Harry wasn't sure what else to say.

Grayson laughed. "I don't need luck, kid," he said before flying off.

The man left a bad taste in Harry's mouth. But he was soon forgotten as Harry's green eyes drifted towards the giant board at the top of the bleachers. It was still blank. He knew he wasn't first, but that didn't matter. As long as he was in the top 15.

The rest of the two minutes seemed like forever. All of Harry's attention was focused on the black board as he tuned out the rest of the world.

Finally, golden letters began to appear on the board, one row at a time. It listed the finishing place, the name, and the racer's country of origin in order.

The dread in the pit of Harry's stomach grew for each name that appeared that was not his own. Doubts flashed across his head. His broom was totally busted by the end, no way he was fast enough. Maybe he should've tried flying faster in the beginning. Maybe he just wasn't good enough.

All of that came to an end as a single line of letters appeared on the board:

9 - Potter, Harry - UK

Relief washed over Harry as he let his body sag. It was at that moment that he finally heard the raucous cheering from the crowd. He dismounted his broom gingerly, his whole body stiff and sore. Unfortunately, his three friends chose that moment to mob him.

For Harry, one second he was looking at his name appear in golden letters, and the next there's a swarm of faces and colors in his sight.

"You did it Harry!"

"That was brilliant mate!"

"Oh my gosh what happened to your arm!"

"We thought you were a goner!"

As Harry basked in the congratulations of his team, he felt a sense of pure joy jolt through him. His face couldn't help but grin like an idiot as he muttered his thanks. Pretty soon his friends that were in the bleachers also swarmed him.

It took a minute of shoving before Daphne managed to get everyone to back off and give Harry some space.

A worried look marred her face as she held Harry's arm. "What happened?" she asked.

In the afterglow of the race, Harry had totally forgotten about his injury. Looking down at his left arm, he saw that his uniform was torn and the previously white fabric had been nearly entirely stained red. The ugly gash was long, and ran from his shoulder almost to his elbow, but the bleeding had stopped.

"Oh, just got nicked by some branches. I'm fine," he said.

"This does not look fine. Anthony, make yourself useful and go find a medic," Daphne said.

"Daphne, don't worry, the race is over," Harry assured her humorously.

_SLAP_

The hit across his face wasn't that hard, but it left Harry shocked and speechless, his mouth hanging open.

"The race is _never_ over," Daphne scolded.

The faces of the group of friends around Harry all mirrored his stunned expression.

"Wow, what a coach," Ron Weasley muttered in a voice that was half awe and half fear.

Daphne narrowed her eyes at the redhead, but the group of friends all started laughing.

Anthony came back with a medic, who waved his wand over Harry's arm a couple of times before it was as good as new.

"So remind me again what makes you qualified to be a coach?" Hermione Granger asked.

"She's not" and "Being the daughter of our sponsor" were said at the same time by Anthony and Neville, respectively.

Seamus and Ron laughed while Anthony and Neville cowered under Daphne's icy glare.

"If you must know, I've been an avid fan of broom racing since I was four," Daphne said to Hermione coldly. "I know everything there is to know about it."

"But you've never actually raced yourself," Hermione more stated than asked.

"Of course I have! Just not professionally," Daphne said with as much dignity as possible.

"It's okay Hermione, all jokes aside Daphne is actually a pretty good coach," Neville assured.

"Bloody hell Longbottom, never break up a cat fight!" Seamus groaned as he facepalmed.

"Ah, Mr. Potter!" A tall man looking to be in his fifties approached the group, saving Seamus from a most unpleasant fate. The man was obviously in a rush and made a beeline for Harry.

"Roger Twaddlely, pleasure to meet you," he said while shaking Harry's hand.

A look of recognition flashed across Anthony's face. "Ah, Harry, this is the commissioner of the World Championship Series," he introduced.

"Oh, nice to meet you sir," Harry said.

"Yes, a job well done to you young man! I wouldn't have expected anything less from the Vanquisher of Voldemort!" He didn't notice the frown that appeared on Harry's face at the epithet and continued. "As one of the first 15 to finish today, you officially qualify for the WCS. Make sure to turn in all paper work and your entrance fee by this time next week. This," he said as he handed what looked to be a watch to Harry, "will let you know where the first race in this year's WCS is going to be a few days before it begins."

Harry raised an eyebrow in confusion. "You can't just tell me where it is?"

Twaddlely smiled slyly. "Of course not, my boy, that's part of the thrill!" He proceeded to scurry away, off to give the same information to another qualifier.

"Odd bloke, that one," Ron said.

Most of the group nodded their agreement.

"Come on Harry, let's go celebrate! First round of Firewhiskey on me!" Seamus said excitedly as he threw his arm around Harry's shoulders. The group all moved to leave, before Neville's voice stopped them.

"Daphne, you're not coming?" he asked. Said girl hadn't moved but rather was examining Harry's broom in her hands, a look of slight confusion on her face.

"Oh, no. Don't want to be hung over for our daily 5am training," she said casually.

Harry spun around at her words, wide eyed and sputtering. "Wha- bu-but, I just had a 3 hour race! I'm sore all over!"

"Then you should go to bed very early," she told him with a stoic expression.

"Why can't I take just a single day off!" Harry protested angrily.

Daphne looked at him, expressionless, for a moment before her features adopted an angelic smile. "Oh. Ok. We can take a day off," she said slowly in a sickly sweet voice. She walked to join to group, eyes never leaving Harry's, the sugary smile still on her face.

All the boys involuntarily shuttered. _'That's the scariest thing I've ever seen,'_ they each thought separately.

Harry decided that he'd rather go through the entire race again rather than see what punishment Daphne had planned for him.

* * *

**[Author's Notes]**

Thanks for reading! I tried to make it an exciting first chapter, so hopefully you enjoyed. Any feedback would be welcome.

Also, disclaimers for the rest of the story: I don't own Harry Potter, I know my aeronautical physics may be off, and I don't know the Muffin Man.


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